


The Fib

by chainofclovers



Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: F/F, Post-Season/Series 06, canon-typical alcohol and drug mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29111403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainofclovers/pseuds/chainofclovers
Summary: Grace is pretty sure everyone lies to their doctor at least a little bit.
Relationships: Frankie Bergstein/Grace Hanson
Comments: 26
Kudos: 56





	The Fib

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deandratb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deandratb/gifts).



> I wrote this in response to a tumblr prompt from actuallylorelaigilmore/deandratb: "grace x frankie | sleepless and lost." Thank you so much for the prompt; I really hope you enjoy this!
> 
> Content notes: this story includes canon-typical discussion of alcohol use and abuse although no one uses or abuses alcohol in any of the scenes. The story also includes descriptions of using Ativan for anxiety and insomnia and what it would be like to stop using it. I have never taken Ativan myself so I relied on internet research to help me understand what it would likely feel like to be a semi-regular, non-dependent user of Ativan. If any of the details don't ring true, please don't hesitate to let me know. Anyway, everyone in this story is safe and okay but if alcohol and prescription drugs are triggers for you, please consider before reading. <3

_I'll be around on Sunday_  
_If you'll meet me at Blue Diner_  
_I'll take coffee and talk about nothing, baby_  
_At Blue Diner, I'll take anything you want to give me, baby_

—from “Old Friend” by Mitski

\---

Grace is pretty sure everyone lies to their doctor at least a little bit. She wouldn’t lie about big things—she wouldn’t pretend she wasn’t having chest pains if, God forbid, she was, and she wouldn’t cover up an allergic reaction, and she’s willing to ask even embarrassing questions if she thinks something’s really wrong. But the little fibs, like when she says she has a drink a few times a week when it’s often more than one, and nearly every night? She’s pretty sure those fibs are universal, and surely doctors know how to read between the lines. Grace refuses to feel guilty for stretching some truths, and happens to know she’s pretty good at it, too. 

Still, she’s afraid that today’s appointment might be the end of the line for her and Ativan.

“We’ve filled the script a few times,” Dr. Harrison says. He’s been Grace’s GP for decades. He’s very familiar with her usually fruitless search for tranquility, her aggressive insomnia, and—as the years have gone on—her indignation that getting older feels like _this_. She’s watched him change, too—he’s skinnier than he used to be, with a shock of untamable white hair. He might not have the story on everything, but he’s got most of what he needs to follow along. 

“I know,” Grace says. She crosses her arms; the gesture makes her paper gown crinkle. “I think I still need it.”

Dr. Harrison frowns. “Ativan isn’t something you’d want to rely on long-term. How many do you have left?”

She has four left. “A few.” 

“And you’re taking them how often?”

“A few nights a week.” This, at least, is perfectly honest. Frankie likes to sleep in Grace’s bed a few nights a week—Frankie’s explained that it makes her feel safe, and that she thinks extra time together will help them both bounce back from the Era of Nick—and with Ativan, it’s a win-win. Frankie gets to feel all the safety and togetherness she wants, and the pill knocks Grace out before she can find the safety and togetherness annoying. 

“Hmm,” Dr. Harrison says thoughtfully. “Okay. I’m going to have you take a half tablet whenever you’d normally take a whole one, call me if you feel weird, and when they’re gone, they’re gone.”

Grace sighs. “All right.” 

“I mean it. Call me.” 

“Do you think I’m gonna feel weird?” 

“You might feel a little nauseous. If it lasts a long time or you spike a fever, contact me right away.” Dr. Harrison smiles slightly. “You might try CBD oil,” he says. “Assuming it’s still anxiety and insomnia we’re treating here.” 

Grace chuckles.

“What’s so funny?”

“You sound like my—my housemate. She’s a big CBD enthusiast.” 

“She might be onto something.”

⁂

That night, Frankie joins Grace and her half tablet of Ativan in bed. Grace swallows it down without mentioning the dosage change, but the sight of the pill jogs something in Frankie’s memory anyway. “I forgot to ask about your appointment,” she says. “All good?”

“All good.” 

“Good,” Frankie repeats. She fluffs her pillow so it fits just right around her head and pulls the covers up to her chin. 

The Ativan kicks in, but with only half a tablet it feels like the drug is traveling in from a farther direction, like it can’t get a proper grip. It settles over her eventually, and as Grace gets past the point of drifting and into certain sleep it sounds like Frankie’s saying something. She wants to hear what it is, but she’s in too deep and her ears can’t make it back.

A few nights later, the same thing happens. 

⁂

As a kid, Grace had a dog who left a single piece of kibble in his bowl at the end of every meal. It was comforting, maybe, to know he had a little something for later. Over six nights, Grace finishes three of the four remaining Ativan tablets. She leaves the fourth in the bottle and buries it at the back of the medicine cabinet. It's good to know it's there, just in case she needs it one day. 

It doesn’t seem possible to tell Frankie, “You can’t sleep in my bed tonight because I weaned myself off the drug I was using to tolerate your presence.” The Grace of five years ago might have been able to, but five years ago Frankie never would have ended up in her bed. Things are different now, and that’s how Grace ends up lying in bed next to Frankie, wide awake in the absence of a pill Frankie doesn’t know she hasn’t taken. She lies on her side facing away from Frankie. She stays very still and tries to take slow, even breaths.

“You asleep?” Frankie whispers.

Grace freezes and says nothing. This must be how it started on the other nights, too—when Grace really was asleep, or when she was too close to sleep to hear her properly.

When Frankie believes she has confirmation that Grace is asleep, she doesn’t scoot closer or touch her or change anything at all about her position. All she does is talk. “It seems like you’re doing better at getting over him,” she murmurs. “Not like you were bringing him up much before, but you seem more...here. Not so far away.” She’s quiet for a second, and when she speaks again Grace can perfectly picture her smile. “Also I like the jeans you wore to dinner tonight. I think they’re new. New jeans...that’s a good sign. Okay, love you, night-night.”

The next night, Grace is filling a water glass in the kitchen when Frankie walks by. Grace clears her throat. “You can come up tonight,” she says. “If you want.”

Frankie flashes a thumbs up sign. “Sweet,” she says. “I’ll be up in a few.” 

Within the hour, all the nonchalance is gone. “You're not drinking extra, are you?” Frankie says when she’s certain Grace is asleep. “I don’t think you are, I mean I seriously don’t think you are, but...you know. I worry sometimes. I love all of you, and that includes your liver.” 

Grace wants to say something. She wants to reassure her—she might fib about all kinds of things with Dr. Harrison, but in this house, with this person? She’s honest. She might not chatter away about her every move, but she doesn’t hide from Frankie. Not anymore. 

She doesn’t pretend to wake up, though. She doesn’t turn to Frankie. She doesn’t say anything. But she smiles a little in the dark. Even her liver is loved.

The routine repeats a few nights later. Grace feels excited about heading to bed. She wonders what Frankie will say—if she’ll compliment her, if she’ll reveal a secret. But when they’re tucked into bed together and enough time has passed for Frankie to start her monologue, the mood immediately turns somber. “I’m so sorry I ever made you doubt me,” Frankie says. 

Grace is confused. It’s been a perfectly nice day. She hasn’t expressed any doubts or disappointments at all.

“I promise I’m not going anywhere,” Frankie continues. “Ever again. Even if nothing ever happens...nothing more than this. It’s enough, and I’ll make sure it keeps being enough. I’m so sorry.” 

“Frankie!” Grace cries. It’s nothing she’s aware of planning to do. “What are you talking about?”

Frankie scrambles away from her and sits up in bed. “I thought you were asleep!”

“I was awake.”

“But you didn’t say anything when I asked!”

“I know, I’m sorry.” 

“But you take Ativan and it knocks you out, and—”

“And then you talk to me. I know. I had to stop taking it.” 

Frankie sighs. “How long has it been since you took it?”

“I took half doses for awhile, and it’s been almost a week since I had any at all.” Grace cringes, pulling the sheet more firmly over her body. “I should have told you.” 

“Jesus, Grace, yes, you should’ve told me. I mean, you can’t just _lie_ when someone asks if you’re awake...although you can, apparently.” 

Grace feels the bed dip as Frankie swings her legs off the side. 

“We can talk about this in the morning,” Frankie says stiffly.

Grace rushes, then. Rushes to sit up. Rushes to turn on the lamp at her bedside. Rushes to turn back to Frankie, to look into her eyes.

She stretches a hand to the flat warm surface Frankie just left. An invitation. Frankie inches closer and slides her legs back under the covers, moving as slowly as if she were retreating from a monster who might wake up any second. 

“Frankie,” Grace says. “We can talk about it now.”


End file.
